


the five loaves and the two fishes

by crookedlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sandwiches, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, acts of service is dean's love language, no betas we die like men, uhh mentions of food insecurity etc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28664568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedlove/pseuds/crookedlove
Summary: Dean has always hated crusts.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	the five loaves and the two fishes

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, all mistakes my own, etc. dedicated to my gospels gang, and [semi-inspired by the tags on this post.](https://save-the-sloths.tumblr.com/post/639896044367495168) title from john 9:16.

Dean has always hated crusts.

It’s a combination of texture, and taste, and the wisps of a warm kitchen filled with food and love.

It’s also the times when they were so low on food, Dean resorted to giving Sam the full sandwich and eating the scraps—the crust—and the times he carefully picked mold off of the loaves to make a passable meal.

So, yeah, he’s a forty-something year-old man who doesn’t eat the crusts on his sandwiches. Whatever.

Sam will comment, sometimes, or. Well, he’ll eye Dean’s plate with his eyebrow quirked up, which is as good as him reading Dean to filth. Dean’s used to it, though, and they have their routines down with nary a bump in the road when it comes to each other’s eating quirks.

Until Cas.

At first, Castiel was so celestial, so untouchable, that such a thing as a sandwich crust wouldn’t have occurred to him to wonder about. What’s a bit of bread to a warrior of Heaven, after all?

As time went on, as Cas grew into his own little quirks (not to mention the time he was human himself), Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes on him whenever he’d scrape the crusts off his plate and into the trash. Cas never asked, though, and so Dean never answered.

Until now.

It’s midnight, and Dean is exhausted after a long day of driving back to the bunker, of the loudness of the highway and the radio. So when Cas offers to bring him something to eat, Dean mumbles an affirmative, expecting Castiel to rummage around in the fridge and nuke some leftovers.

Dean rests his head on the kitchen table, letting the cool surface lull him into a doze. He’s awakened by the quiet _clink_ of a plate being placed in front of him, and Cas’ hand smoothing across his back. Dean lifts his head.

He blinks.

“Why’d you cut the crusts off?”

Cas moves to sit in the chair opposite Dean, fingers dragging along Dean’s spine as he goes. The icy trickle that follows his touch brings the spasms in Dean’s back to a more manageable level, the Grace giving a welcome reprieve to the pain.

Castiel sits. “Because you don’t eat them.”

Dean stares at him. Cas stares back. Dean prematurely folds, eyes darting back to the crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich in front of him. It’s never a good idea to start a staring contest with an angel. The bastards always win.

“Yeah, but... I can just pick them off. You didn’t have to make a—a fuss, or anything.”

“It wasn’t any trouble, Dean,” Castiel replies smoothly, folding his hands on the worn wooden table. The sight of the motion draws Dean’s attention to the glass of milk sitting off-center, a straw floating inside.

Cas’ hand snakes across the table, tilting Dean’s chin up from looking at the meal. Dean gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath Castiel’s fingers. Cas examines him, eyes searching Dean’s face for something, God knows what, before he implores, “Eat.”

Dean mechanically picks up the sandwich—strawberry jam, from the fancy farmer’s market a couple miles south, not even grape like Sam told him Cas preferred, what the _fuck_ —and eats it.

It’s good.

Halfway through, Cas having settled back in his chair, all but twiddling his thumbs as he watches Dean chew, decides to interrupt the tranquil atmosphere by saying, “You deserve good things in your life, Dean.”

Dean, like an idiot, promptly chokes, peanut butter gluing his mouth closed.

He coughs. Cas is still gazing at him thoughtfully.

“Well, uh. Gee, Cas,” Dean blusters. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

Unfortunately, by this point, Castiel has clearly heard enough of Dean’s attempts at bravado and obfuscation over the years and doesn’t even deign to comment. Instead, he continues to look at Dean, face soft and eyes gentle.

In that moment, Dean abruptly realizes the person sitting across from him probably knows him better than anyone alive. Cas probably knows about the times Dean had to make do with scraps, probably knows about how Mary would hum along to the radio as she cooked dinner, probably knows about the loaves of bread Dean would hide under his jacket to bring home to Sam when they were short on money.

It’s after midnight, and Dean has just realized the being sitting in front of him knows all of that, and still sits placidly in front of him, at the kitchen table when he doesn’t even eat. For _Dean._

The mind boggles.

Dean can feel an embarrassing flush working its way up his neck, and he clears his throat.

Cas cuts him off before he can speak: “Finish your food. After all, I made such a ‘fuss’ over it.” The fucker does the air quotes and everything, a playful glint in his eyes. Dean snorts.

And, well. If his foot bumps against Cas’ underneath the kitchen table a few times, and Castiel nudges back... and when Cas shepherds him out of the kitchen, flicking off the lights, maybe something about the dim lighting gives Dean the nerve to touch Cas’ hand.

Cas’ fingers twine with his, and the world is quiet.


End file.
